


the kids from yesterday

by orphan_account



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ableism, Ableist Language, Angst with a Happy Ending, Autism, Autistic Prompto, M/M, Platonic Kissing, Protective Iggy, Slurs, ableist fucking asshole gladiolus, kind of!!!, platonic promnis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 15:16:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11187810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Prompto listens to the arguing coming from outside the tent and holds back a heavy sob, hugging himself and pulling a pillow over his head.





	the kids from yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> im autistic so this is.. my process of venting oops it has a nice ending though!!

It started with faint bickering.

The kind of minor fight you'd expect friends to get into eventually; someone forgot to put the toilet seat down, or close all of the cupboards (an obsessive pet peeve of Ignis' especially), or accidentally erased all of their voicemails.

Sometimes the stores run out of Ebony, which irks Ignis somewhat, but not enough to fully piss him off. Not unless Gladio makes a mistake, in which the faint frustration from lack of caffeine can send him throwing unnecessary remarks at the muscular male.

Other times, Gladiolus will run out of Cup Noodles; which is completely different, because Cup Noodles provides no real benefit to his mood other than happiness from personal favoritism. Then Noctis will start complaining about being royal, and Gladiolus will chastise him (by yelling), which causes Ignis to get angry with him again.

It's an ongoing cycle of madness among unfortunate opposites.

Only now, it's escalated to the point where Noctis is stirring in his sleep and Prompto can hear Gladio's yelling through his blankets.

Though their argument is rather loud, the blond can only make out every other word. What it lacks in room for comprehension, it gains in volume. Despite this, Prompto is still curled up fearfully under his blankets, clutching onto his pillow in hopes of the dispute faltering. (It never does.)

No one can understand why Ignis and Gladio haven't scratched each other's eyes out yet. It's highly unlikely that anyone ever will. They're constantly fighting, literally 24/7. Prompto (and presumably Noctis) can't even recall the last time they went a whole day without at least fighting a bit. It's an unbelievable friendship ( ~~rivalry?~~ ).

Prompto's thankful that his friendship ( ~~almost familial closeness?~~ ) with Ignis (a suitable motherly figure to make up for the one Prompto lacked) greatly contrasts that.

Minutes of muffled, snarky mumbling pass and soon enough, Prompto begins to understand what they're saying more clearly. (Angry tones do lead to an unfortunate increase in audibility.)

"Has he even taken his medication recently?" he hears Gladiolus murmur vehemently, practically throwing the camping chair by the tent in anger.

A lump forms in his throat. Right. There's no way that this is about Noctis.

He feels a tear run down his cheek, over his freckles, and down below to absorb in his blanket. He knows exactly what (or whom, to be exact) this argument is about now.

"I've told you before, Gladiolus," the advisor retorts with the same amount of vexation in his tone, "the medication hardly helps. He's told me that, for the most part, it intensifies his surroundings drastically. If you ask me, that's reason enough to refrain from taking it."

The shield laughs in an intimidating, _mocking_ , bellowing manner. Prompto listens to the arguing coming from outside the tent and holds back a heavy sob, hugging himself and pulling a pillow over his head. He begins to think it's nights like these that give Noctis the worst nightmares. "Then maybe he shouldn't be with us in the first place. If he can't handle a little medication, then we don't need him fighting _real_ enemies."

"You don't know what you're saying," Ignis insists bitterly, packing away one of the last camping chairs as he prepares for bed. Prompto can hear Gladiolus snort.

"You can bet your damn ass I know what I'm saying," he spits back, earning a scoff from Ignis. "What, don't believe me? Did you see him out there today? I'd hardly call that fighting. He was barely even able to hit the damn Coeurl! How will he be able to help us at all on this journey if he's just whining and crying like a fucking retard?"

The gunman gasps, hearing a tense silence fall over the campsite as Ignis drops his chair. The minute he says that word, all Prompto can hear is everytime he's heard it. Every bully, every adult, every judging pair of eyes watching him as he tries to progress through life. Everytime he goes out in public, the echoes of the people questioning and staring. The kids that walk by and are surprised when their parents scowl at the fidgeting boy. The kids in school that call him retarded for being obsessed with a game, or not understanding a joke, or getting confused when dealing with sarcasm. The teachers that call him a spaz for clicking his pen repetitively, or listening to a song on repeat, or doodling extravagant plots on his notes.

He can almost feel the heat coming from Ignis, without even having to see his glare. Whether or not Gladiolus knows the impact of what he just said is beyond Prompto. Maybe he said it on purpose, because he knows that Prompto can hear him, and he knows that word will mess with him. He covers his mouth, suppressing the sobs he know will rack his body otherwise. A sudden, unexpected weight drops in his stomach, forcing all his unrelated thoughts away. Prompto can feel his own heart pounding, his skin burning, his chest heaving with uncertainty.

He listens closely, giving all his attention for any retaliation.

"You'll never utter that word again if you know what's good for you," the advisor sneers through gritted teeth, eyes narrowing angrily at the larger man. He almost wants to kick himself for not incorporating more emotion into that retort. It takes a lot of convincing to get Gladiolus to cease himself. Something changes in the other's facial expression; something akin to fear, perhaps? Nevertheless, he grunts and crosses his arms, looking away from Ignis.

"Why are you so protective over him, anyway? I thought you were only like that with Noctis. Is it because you pity him? Do you feel bad for him, Ignis?"

The question echoes menacingly through Prompto's mind.

_Do you feel bad for him, Ignis?_

People had pitied him all of his life. Everywhere he went, all he heard was, "Oh, the poor boy," and, "Have you heard he has _autism_? His poor parents."

If it wasn't faux pity or concern for his health, it was insults and hard criticism. "Stop fidgeting. You're embarrassing yourself," "Why are you flapping your hands like that?"

A sharp, involuntary gasp emits his mouth as he hears the thundering resonance of a hand making contact with skin, snapping him immediately out of his thoughts.

Ignis had slapped Gladio.

The following silence was more intense and weighted than the first one. He swears he can feel their expressions outside the tent - Gladio's of surprise and Ignis' of indignation. Moments of absolute quiet pass, neither of them speaking a word before Ignis unzips the flap of the tent, scowling slightly as he enters. He carefully zips it again, cautious to not disturb Noctis' deep slumber as he settles himself down next to Prompto.

"I'm so sorry, Prompto."

The words cause the blond to jump a little - so much for his unsuccessful illusion of slumber - and he turns around to face Ignis. He supposes that his static position wasn't quite as still as he thought. (Or maybe Ignis had used his super sensing powers and knew he was awake.)

At the sight of the obvious, clear liquid running down Prompto's face, Ignis' eyebrows furrow, wiping them off chastely and kissing the freckles beneath. He always told Prompto that they looked like little stars.

"I truly am. I promise. I understand that his words were uncalled for - unforgivable, even - and that he's hurt you. I'm not certain why he's so vexed at the moment, but I am aware that it isn't primarily because of you. He has... issues, Prompto, with dealing with his anger properly. None of this is your fault. Okay?"

Prompto nods a little, blinking and wiping at his face, feeling his cheeks flush at the comfort. Ignis always has been and always will be the best source of comfort. How does he always know exactly what to say?

"I love you, Ignis."

They both know that it isn't romantic, that it's highly unlikely for it to become romantic. It doesn't need to be clarified that their affection for each other is absolutely platonic. (Prompto is hardly even sure whether or not Ignis is romantically attracted to men.) It's been that way since they met: an unspoken, deep, friendly love for each other. Always becoming available during times of need, and always rushing to each other when distressed.

"I love you, too, Prompto."

And, as Ignis kisses away the last remnants of his tears, Prompto knows he wouldn't want it any other way.


End file.
